That Bloody Team
by HyperMint
Summary: Sherlock Holmes v. The New York Mets


Disclaimer: Just for entertainment, not profit. No characters are mine.

* * *

There is nothing and no one that Sherlock Holmes hated more than the New York Mets.

Oh, it wasn't a professional hatred or even an international one. None of the players or associated sundry did him any harm (yet) and he wasn't about to make unnecessary noise accusing any of them of wrongdoing. In fact, it wasn't the players as much as it was the actual team in general.

What did he care that so-and-so had this many strike-outs in his career?

What did he care that so-and-so hit that many home runs?

Or Coach So-and-so donated roughly 4,000 American dollars to one of the city's projects?

It was no concern of his what that bloody team did and if he had his way, he wouldn't sit through game after game on his 'brooding stool' wishing fire on the franchise merchandise and ticking off his newest applicant of Hated Player of the Week.

And he could have found any kind of other activity to busy himself with, make no mistake, but game after game, he dragged himself to his 'brooding stool' and glowered at the telly and wished fire on the merchandise.

He wouldn't do anything about that, though, because his partner was trained too well and would find out and then be cross with him for decades. Which meant that hurting the team was off limits and not an option.

Because they were Watson's players on Watson's team and game after game would find a look of utter devotion and adoration on her face as she wore that bloody cap for her precious Mets.

(Best not to let on about that Hated Player of the Week hit list he had encrypted several times in several languages and hidden on a small flash drive that only he knew about hidden within the frame of a picture of his father. Watson wouldn't touch it due to typically predictable assumptions of sentiment and he did nothing to dissuade her of that.)

(Also best to keep mum about the ways he would dispose of the bodies on said list and how he would carry it out. What? He wasn't _actually_ going to do anything, promise.)

Yes, the reason Sherlock sat through game after tedious game was because of Watson.

Or rather, her look of adoration and utter devotion aimed toward complete and utter strangers simply because they were her team.

Personal friends, they were not. They were just statistics, really. She had no actual personal connection to any of them. And yet, they got what her actual friends and colleagues did not and it rankled him.

That bloody team.

"You know," she commented one night after one such game. "You really don't have to watch if you don't want to."

"Nonsense," he waved dismissively. "It gives me a chance to... gather my thoughts, as it were."

"I've known you for years and I'm pretty sure that's not your 'gather my thoughts' face. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you want someone to bomb the stadium."

"Not a bad idea, actually. Not a large explosive, obviously," he told her skeptical look of alarm. "Just a small one so we can go and meet your idols," he was scrubbing his mouth out later. With bleach. Or gunpowder. Soap wasn't strong enough.

Her look softened, a very very tiny smile on her face as she looked down at her 'Game Hat'. "That's kind of sweet of you to think," she was definitely pleased. "And I might want to meet the team someday. But," she turned a stern look on him, "on my own time. No planting evidence or making a story or anything. Got that?"

"By your leave, Watson," he agreed, a large convincing smile on his face. It was easy to, after all, since he had no intention of hastening the meeting under any circumstances.

She went to put her Hat away, satisfied with his actually genuine sentiment, and left him growling at the now dark telly.

He didn't need any help with Watson's affections, thank you very much. But he was obviously doing something wrong if he got a positive look from Watson because of something related to the Mets. That bloody team.

If he was to receive any sort of positive look, it was going to be by his own merit.

Bloody team.

* * *

So, the season ended - much to his relief - and their focus returned to their job solving cases of all kinds.

But he remembered his hatred of That Bloody Team and the fact that Watson liked anything he did if it related to it and ... didn't so much as adjust his behavior as he did make an effort to add to it.

Once a week, he would pick a recipe for breakfast - term loosely used, of course - and make it for her.

Between cases, he would experiment with different recipes and make a new entry in his Watson Approval chart and categorize her reaction to each recipe.

(It was very involved with three general columns - Approve, Neutral, Dislike - and whether her mood played a role in her dish rating, with notes about variations on the original recipes and if that helped and other such notes. He took her input into account and made notations with her observations included.)

He traded Everyone a case that wasn't actually that easy in exchange for Watson to meet with one of her non-sports idols after an illness caused her to miss the original visit and at the brownstone, no less.

(Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to discover that the man's boyfriend was having some trouble with his own hive and thus spent the evening exchanging texts and emails and links with the new beekeeper, resulting in future 'playdates' for them to visit and what Watson called a 'man crush'. Sherlock vehemently denied it, citing his duty to mentor future beekeepers to bring their obsession back from the brink of extinction.)

(Not that he was opposed to male-male relations, after some experimentation in his youth. He could see the appeal to certain males, but ultimately found that the female form was more to his liking. He was not above some manipulative flirting or a slight kiss here and there to get information, but was content with his choice as it stood presently.)

He made sure she was dressed appropriately for the changing seasons and set up little presents in the weeks leading up to Christmas in scavenger hunts encompassing the brownstone, the precinct and Watson's favorite eateries. Sometimes all three in one hunt.

(He made certain that Ms. Hudson and the different personnel of the latter two didn't know, either. Their jobs were to give the clues, not hints.)

For Thanksgiving, there were no cases and Watson's family had been unable to meet due to various inclement weather incidents and the fact that they were all out of town. As a stroke of luck, all the people in their circle that Sherlock counted among his friends - of which there were few, indeed - had also been alone for the holiday and Sherlock took it upon himself to throw a bit of a surprise Thanksgiving get together while Watson had been taking a case on her own. He thought it worked beautifully, especially when Watson realized what was happening as the others arrived one by one and gave him a dazzling grin that lit her dark eyes.

(Even Clyde was permitted to join the festivities, the tortoise being sat in his small carrier next to Captain Gregson and feasting on the best vegetables Sherlock could find.)

(All of them ended up spending the night instead of leaving like he'd expected and half the next day and he was in the middle of a small scale mock crime scene with some of the leftovers, when the realization hit him that he was actually settled in his usually chaotic mind in the midst of the others. He couldn't find it in himself to mind that much.)

For Christmas, Watson had protested any more presents than what she'd already found, but he simply couldn't resist going to the best Chinese restaurant they both agreed was a 'Special Occasion Place' and making the reservations. During said dinner, he presented her with some magazine subscriptions that were advanced copies and an autographed copy of one of the books on her recreational 'to buy' list.

And all the while, he soaked up every grin tossed his way, every look and laugh of absolute delight, every instance where her eyes sparkled like the most darkest of gems and he reveled in the fact that each and every one of them were his doing.

And his alone.

* * *

January came and Sherlock found himself at a crime scene.

This wasn't unusual by any means, but he found That Bloody Team's presence in the victim's bedroom and never hated it more than when he caught the look of devastation on his Watson's face before she covered it up.

She'd always been of the mind that the loss of a fellow Mets fan was like losing a friend and her countenance was uncharacteristically silent and reserved and Sherlock hated it.

Watson was usually full of life and happy in her own way and he resented the fact that That Bloody Team made her lose that, albeit temporarily.

(Det. Bell and his offhand comment about thinking fire at something made him realize that he was standing stock still and glaring daggers at the offensive item in question. Luckily, Watson was preoccupied with other things and didn't notice.)

To cheer her up, he had them eat out together at one of her favorite Mexican restaurants and called in a favor to the kitchen staff to make a special dessert for her that was off the menu and something she'd said once that she would love to try.

(He, of course, claimed that he wanted to see if his own variation of the same recipe would make any difference and she bought it without question. The fact that it ended up being just that much more delicious than the one they had was actually a happy accident.)

* * *

Then came the day he hated most:

Exactly two weeks before baseball started up again.

Watson simply came alive at the very thought.

Her steps were lighter and possibly skipping as she moved about the brownstone and he would continuously hear snatches of That Bloody Team's song as he crept around corners to observe her.

The reminder of his rival had him in more of a strop than everyone around him probably deserved and it was brought to his attention during a case that had him absolutely _convinced_ of the guilt of one of the suspects.

Watson was with Det. Bell outside the precinct on one of their information gatherings and he was with the Captain in the interrogation room and... well, that was all he really remembered before rejoining the world pressed against the wall just outside the room he'd started in.

"Holmes," Gregson's gruff voice spoke into his free ear. "You need. To calm. Down."

"The bloody hell I do! That was an admission of guilt if I've ever heard one!"

He felt the bigger man heave a sigh before the pressure on his wrists lessened enough for him to turn and put his back to the wall as he prepared to make his case. The look on the man's face, however, stopped him cold.

"Look," the understanding smile was at odds with the resigned look in his eyes. "I get it. I really do."

"Get what? Captain, that man in there virtually confessed to the crime!"

"He's not the perp."

Sherlock stared at him as the words sunk in. "Wh- what do you - he most certainly is."

"No, he's not."

"How? How can you be sure you aren't being tricked? You may have impressive detective skills, Captain, but not mine."

"No, you're right there. I don't. But what I do have are eyes and an outsider perspective." He sighed again at the blank look Sherlock graced him with. "Let me ask you something, alright? What nationality is his girlfriend?"

"Chinese. Wuwei in Gansu Province," he immediately answered. "What should that matter?"

"And what team does his jacket say?"

"... it is of no importance."

"I think it is. You see, Holmes," he put a hand in his pocket with a wry shake of his head. "You think I don't know. You think we _all_ don't know. But we do. It's not hard to know you and put two and two together when you're accusing a Chinese woman's Mets loving boyfriend of a heinous crime when his alibi does check out."

"I still fail to see the point to this little chat," he scowled, crossing his arms.

"The point, as you say, is to get your head out of your ass and actually start talking to Joan."

"About what?" he played dense. "We communicate all the time. Several times a day, in fact. We do share a residence, after all."

"Which brings me to the problem," Gregson was unruffled as he plowed on. "You say to observe, but I think you are incapable of that _because_ you live together. Me, Bell, even Hudson, can see what you can't."

"And that would be, Captain?"

"Let me put it in clear enough terms so that you can understand. Joan looks at that team like they were her children. With me so far? But you, she looks at like you're either her favorite dessert or covered in it. Now, what you do with this advice is completely up to you, but what you need to do right now is to think about it, calm down and put your head back on straight. So we can get the real perp and close this case so you can take Joan out to that Thai place you think we don't know about on your 'Special Occasion' list and I don't have to put you in a holding cell for attempted assault on a witness. If you can just put your hatred aside for Joan's favorite team for a few hours, we can be rational and logical about things. So, now, I am going to go back in there," he tilted his head to the room they'd left, "and you are going to follow after a few minutes and you are going to be the Detective I know you are. One that is ruled by facts and not emotions, who likes justice for justice's sake and not because the guy likes something you hate with the passion of a thousand suns. And if you can't do that, I will suspend your ass for the rest of this investigation before I go over your head and tell Joan exactly what is going on."

Sherlock was left to watch Gregson amble back and eventually nodded to himself before returning to the interrogation with his inner turmoil shoved aside to be dealt with later.

(In the end, it was _not_ , in fact, the Mets fan and Sherlock sucked up his pride and apologized to the Captain for his unprofessional behavior. Gregson waved his apology aside with a shrug. "I have to say," he admitted. "I would have thought she'd have already caught this, but being blind around each other does end up going both ways.")

At the Thai restaurant later that night, Sherlock wordlessly gave her a red rose and she just smiled.

* * *

There was nothing and no one that Sherlock Holmes had more of a love/hate relationship with than the New York Mets.

He hated them because they had so much influence on his Watson and could dictate her mood at any given time.

But, on the other hand, he knew that it was because of them that he and Watson had a more satisfying level to what was already there.

In spite of that, however, he still hated that Watson adored them and devoted significant amounts of time to.

When Sherlock wasn't demanding her attention and focus.

But sometimes, when he caught her watching him during a game with an intensity that gave him the suspicion that she'd watched him before, a look deeper than everything he'd ever wanted from her before would be on her face. Something that didn't have to do with the Mets and everything to do with him.

And every little thing he'd worked to get from her before came more easily now, especially should their hands meet in the middle of a game.

(He still kept the Hated Player list, though, but, instead of being upset when they made her happy, it found new purpose in the players that made her sad.)

(And he did thank Gregson for being the driving force in their new relationship, but there was no reason to tell him that he was right about Watson and her dessert. He suspected he now had a bit of a Pavlovian response to the thought of it, truth told.)

He would have wondered why he hadn't approached the subject before, but knew the reason without a doubt:

That Bloody Team.


End file.
